The Graveyard Ghost
by mamazano
Summary: Forever is a really long time. Set at Christmas.
1. Prequel

Some days, it was too much to bear. One would think the gut-wrenching pain would subside, and that time would heal, or that, at least, his vivid memories would be shrouded under new memories, buried under the sand of the hourglass which ran for everyone but him.

And yet, here he stood again, nearly one hundred years later, sorrow rending his heart asunder like it was only yesterday.

Jack Sparrow thrust his hands into his pockets, fingers in prickling fists, half frozen from the bitter wind blowing a steady, sharp cut off the Heath, and forced himself to read the inscription on the gravestone, the one he'd painstakingly written out; the final chapter in a life too short.

_William G. Turner, A Good Man._

Turning his collar up against the wind, he turned to go. Immortality, his self-summoned curse, followed obediently, snapping at his heels like the Hound of Hell.


	2. Chapter 1

Written by: mamazano  
Title: The Graveyard Ghost  
Rating: G  
Characters: Jack, Will (W/E referenced)  
Disclaimer: Disney owns them, I just like playing with them

Summary: Forever is a very long time.

****

_Christmas Eve – 1849 _

The ghostly figure was there; as he had been every Christmas Eve for the past half score years. Head bowed, the mysterious visitor kept silent vigil beside the snowy grave. He appeared to be a man of the sea, a ship's captain, perhaps, from the cut of his clothes, though they were of a much earlier age. The leather tricorn hat dipped low upon his brow, and his pale presence would have seemed an apparition if not for the thick dusting of snow upon the shoulders of his worn frock coat. His beard was crusted with frost, as was his hair, his knee-high bucket boots sunk deep in the freshly fallen snow. It appeared he had been keeping his lonely vigil for some time.

The sun had dipped low in the western sky leaving this section of the cemetery in long shadows. A bitter wind blew in off the Heath, swirling the snow around the many gravestones, silent marble sentinels, who watched with vacant eyes the solitary figure, silent and still as if he too were carved from stone. As the last rays of the sun vanished behind the lowering clouds, the man turned, and with a small wave of his hand, bid the grave adieu with a gentle salute, before melting into the shadows once again.

****

_One year later…_

The traveler shook the snow off his coat as he ducked inside the local Public House, its lantern-lit interior and blazing fireplace a welcome respite from the bitter winter wind beyond its thick walls. Stomping his feet and rubbing his hands to renew circulation, the young man glanced around at the patrons scattered around the low-beamed room, a motley bunch of trades folk and local men, their sturdy figures hunched over their pints of nut-brown ale. Their eyes followed the stranger as he made his way to the worn oak bar, signaling the barkeep over with a smile and a handful of coin.

"A pint of your best ale," he said, glancing once more around the room. He unwound the heavy woolen scarf from his neck and set it, along with his hat on the stool beside him. "And a half crown if you could help me locate a certain person."

The barman set the glass of frothy brew down in front of the stranger. Eyeing the newcomer with suspicion, the tavern keeper nodded towards the mug. "My business is to serve drink, not meddle in others' affairs." He turned with a curt nod and began to walk away, stopping up short at the stranger's next words.

"The man I seek is not one of your customers. In fact, I am not sure he is even alive."

"Craziest thing I've heard." The bartender shook his head. "Yer lookin' for a dead man? Try the cemetery."

The rest of the men sitting around the bar laughed.

"Perhaps he's wanting to talk to Harper's ghost," one offered.

Another chimed in. "Yeah, send him t' see ol' Harper. What a pair they'll make."

The stranger did not seem perturbed, just stood there, sipping his drink before casually asking, "Who is this Harper fellow they speak of?"

The bartender grunted. "Local caretaker at the cemetery down the road. Claims to have a resident ghost of some sea captain."

"Exceptin' no one's ever seen it 'cept Harper." A ruddy faced man added.

The stranger finished his drink and placed an extra coin on the bar. Wrapping his scarf once more around his neck he donned his hat and asked the barkeep, "Where can I find this Harper?"

He gestured with his head. "About a quarter mile past the cemetery gates. Has a small cottage there."

The stranger thanked him and headed for the door. As he was leaving one of the men shouted after him, "Who knows, mebbe you'll get t' meet the ghost, if yer lucky."

The stranger smiled as he braced himself against the bitter December wind. For near five score years, he'd been traveling, from port to port, and town to town, listening to the local legends, hoping to find some sign of him. Now, on this snowy winter's night, it appeared he might finally have found who he'd been searching for.

****

The caretaker's cottage was not difficult to locate. Nestled against the towering stone walls of the cemetery, the bright light spilling from its multipaned windows was a welcome sight in the bitter cold of the winter's day. Barely 4 o'clock in the afternoon, the sun had already set behind the barren trees, leaving the landscape gloom ridden and bleak.

The traveler pulled the collar of his coat tighter around his throat as he carefully traversed the narrow rutted road, frozen over from the freezing rain that had been falling since morning. As he reached the caretaker's door, the rain turned to snow, swiftly falling and obscuring the path from which he'd came.

He hesitated before knocking, wondering if this too would be another dead end. It seemed he'd been following a breadcrumb trail of clues for an eternity, searching for the proverbial needle in the haystack. All his lines of enquiry had ended the same: the man had been there but had disappeared, with no one the wiser as to where he'd gone. Staunch determination, and an overwhelming need for closure, drove him ever onward in his pursuit.

His knock was answered by a short, ruddy faced man, with rheumy eyes and grizzled chin. He peered past the traveler into the gloom before turning his attention to his visitor.

"Cemetery's closed. Come back tomorrow." He went to close the door but was stopped by a well placed foot.

Flashing a smile and a gold coin, the stranger said, "I was told you might have seen the man I am looking for."

"That's a fair piece yer offerin' fer information." The old man narrowed his eyes. "What's he done?"

"Nothing. He's an old friend." The traveler nodded his head towards the walls of the cemetery. "Perhaps you've seen him. Long frock coat, tricorn hat. A sea captain."

The elderly man's eyes widened and his mouth gaped. Without further questions, he ushered the stranger inside, out of the cold.

"You know this man?" he whispered to the stranger.

The younger man nodded. "You've seen him?"

"Aye, I've seen him," the caretaker said. "Been comin' ever since they opened the cemetery. Always to the same grave. Just stands there, like he's keeping vigil."

"How often?" The traveler tried to keep the excitement from his voice. "Once a week? A month?"

The grizzled head shook. "Year. Only shows up on Christmas Eve." He glanced at the snow falling beyond the windows. "That'd be tomorrow."

"I will return then, come morning," the younger man said. He handed the gold coin to the caretaker. "They'll be another, then, if you'll direct me to the grave."

"Most certainly." The man eagerly pocketed the coin. "I've no doubt he'll return."

As the traveler made to leave the old man asked, "Who, pray tell, have I've the pleasure of doing business with?"

The stranger turned, his eyes old in his youthful face. "Will Turner."

****

The morning dawned gray and cold. The air held the promise of snow; the night's dusting scrunched underfoot as Will made his way towards the caretaker's cottage. Excitement brought a spring to his step, his breath sending wreaths of smoke around his head.

The caretaker, Harper, was waiting, and soon they had traversed the icy path from his cottage to the wrought iron gates of the cemetery. Inside the walls, the monuments loomed overhead, marble angels and towering tombs lined the winding paths. Everything was covered with a shroud of snow that deadened all sound, lending an eerie silence to the place. The grave they were seeking was located near a copse of trees, half buried in the snow.

"This is the one?" Will asked, squatting to brush the snow off the marble stone so as to read the inscription.

Harper nodded. "He appears just about supper time, doesn't say a word, just stands there. Thought at first he might be a relative or something."

Will furrowed his brow. "The men down at the pub said he was a ghost."

"Might as well be, can't get him t' talk none." The old man scratched his chin. "Soon as he sees a soul, he disappears."

Will didn't reply; he slowly straightened as he read the inscription on the gravestone.

_My sledge and anvil lie declined  
My bellows too have lost their wind  
My fire's extinct my forge decayed  
My coals are spent, my iron's gone  
My nails are drove, my work is done._

Above the verse the name of the deceased stood stark against the cold marble.

_William Turner, A Good Man 1696-1739._

****

_Spring, 1737_

He had buried her in the spring, along with their newborn child. The churchyard was ablaze with color, the rhododendrons and cherry trees, always her favorites, in full bloom. The pink petals drifted silently, like tears, onto the two shrouded coffins, one large, one small; a gentle benediction as if nature itself was bidding a sad farewell.

Will Turner stood with hand clasped tightly on his son, Liam's shoulder. Just fourteen years old, the boy was doing his best to be brave, biting his lip to fight back the tears. His father, having seen his share of death during their years apart, still could not fathom the loss. Ten years at sea and only five short years together.

Will had welcomed his release from the _Dutchman_'s service, moving his family back to England to make a new start. He established himself as a blacksmith once more, while Elizabeth had begun a new life as the village midwife, finding joy in the bringing of new life into the world. So, when her own water broke weeks early, she had insisted she was fine, waiting until the last minute before allowing Will to call the local doctor. By that time, there was little the doctor could do, and mother and child had passed on, as the first light of dawn brightened the sky.

For Will, all joy had left the world with her passing. He dedicated his life to Liam, his surviving child, and when he too was taken, tragically, in a cart mishap the following year, Will Turner had decided he had nothing further to live for.

****

_December, 1739_

The visitor at the smithy had arrived unannounced, bringing a splash of exotic color and the scent of the sea. Will had just finished tidying up for the evening, dreading the return to his empty home, the cold winter having settled in his bones and soul. So when the door had swung open, he had turned with a reproach on his lips.

"The shop is closed. You'll have to return after…"

The rest of his sentence was lost as his eyes widened at the sight. There in the doorway stood a sight he'd never expected to see again.

"Hello, Will."

Will stood still, willing his heart to stop racing. "Jack. How did you…?"

"I've me ways." The familiar ivory and gold grin lit the smithy, bringing a flood of memories with it. "Heard you'd settled here, just thought I'd wait until…"

"Until Elizabeth passed on?" Will's tone was bitter.

Jack frowned and took another step towards him. "Bugger. I didn't know. " He stopped and swallowed before asking, "When?"

"Two years ago." Will wiped a weary hand across his face. "I lost Liam the following year." His voice caught and he turned away, emotions he had been denying himself threatening to spill over.

Jack paused, and then said softly, "I didn't know. I am sorry, Will." He shook his head with a frustrated gesture. "If only I'd found you earlier."

Will stared at him, suddenly realizing that Jack Sparrow hadn't changed. Not a hair from when he'd seen him last.

"You found it, I take it," Will said, curious. "The Water of Life."

Jack grinned. "Aye." He held his arms out wide and said, "Nothing changes, Will. Not even the clothes on me back." He advanced into the room then, hand weaving their familiar magic spell. "I brought some with me, Will. Was going to offer it to you. And your family."

The last bit seemed an afterthought, but Jack seemed earnest and sincere. He fished in his pocket and removed a small glass vial, a clear liquid within the stoppered bottle.

"No thank you, Jack," Will turned away; fetching his coat from a peg on the wall he fished a long scarf out of the pocket and wound it around his throat. Donning his hat he added, "I appreciate the gesture, really. I just have no reason to want to live another year now, less forever."

Jack frowned, then brightened. "At least let me buy you a drink. For old times, aye?"

"Aye, Jack. For old times." Will's voice was weary, beyond his years.

****

_Christmas Eve, 1850_

Will's thoughts were brought back to the present by the caretaker's hurried whisper.

"There he is!"

Will's breath caught in his throat as he followed the trembling finger of Harper's to a spot in the woods further along the path. Barely discernable in the shadows, Will could make out the familiar figure. Hesitantly, he turned and said softly, "Please go, I would like to speak to him alone."

The elderly man nodded and hurried off down the path. Will stood still for a moment before venturing to speak.

"Hello, Jack."

The figure stepped out of the shadows. "It's you, then. You've finally come back to haunt me."

Will shook his head. "No. It's me, Jack. Will Turner."

Jack took another careful step closer, his face wary. "Are you sure?"

Raising a hand first, as if to poke Will to determine the statement as a fact, Jack tossed the idea and clutched his arms around Will, hugging him close. "You feel real enough." Jack disentangled himself from Will to point towards the grave behind him. "But if you're here, then who's in there?"

"I have a story to tell you." Will smiled. "Will you come for a drink? For old time's sake?"

****

"So, you're telling me you've been searching nigh a hundred years for me?"

Jack sat back in his chair and sipped his drink, his eyes fixed on Will's.

"Give or take," Will said with a smile. He set his drink down and asked, "And you, Jack. Why? Why have you come here, year after year?"

Jack gave him an incredulous look. "Thought it obvious, William."

The two of them were comfortably ensconced in the back room of the local pub, a roaring fire in the hearth and the sound of merriment surrounding them. After the first initial shock had worn off, the two men had found themselves in familiar comfort, relaxed and natural, as if seeing each other just the week before.

Little by little, the story emerged. Jack, having been turned down in his offer of eternal life, had left the vial behind, in case Will were to change his mind. Will, on the other hand, had been determined not to be left behind again, knowing first hand the pain of loss that came with a loved one's demise. And nothing would have changed except for a chance occurrence that happened the following week.

Will had closed up the shop for the night when he'd stumbled across the body of a local vagrant, stone cold and dead, in the alley behind his shop. A singular idea had sprung from this encounter, and before he knew what he was doing, Will had dragged the dead man's body into his shop, and, after exchanging clothes, set the shop afire, slipping away into the night as the alarm was spread throughout the village.

A proper burial had been conducted on the charred and unrecognizable remains found within the burnt shell of the smithy. William Turner, blacksmith, was laid to rest alongside his family in the graveyard beside the village church. After seeing the last of the mourners depart, Will had spent a moment in silent repose beside the graves of his beloved wife and children. Then, with resolute determination, he had uncorked the vial of water Jack Sparrow had left behind and drank its contents, before smashing it against the tombstone of the recently deceased.

"Farewell, William Turner," he had declared, before turning up his collar to the winter chill and disappearing into the night.

As for Jack, he'd returned the following month to find the smithy gone and the gravestone marking William Turner's demise. He had made a vow, that dark December day, to return each year to remember his friend's passing.

And each year he did return, until the day came when the church's graveyard was to be removed to make way for the coming railroad. Having the means at his disposal, Jack had seen that the graves of William Turner, along with his wife and children, were relocated to the newly established cemetery on the outskirts of London. It was Jack who had purchased the tombstone to mark the graves, returning each Christmas Eve to keep his yearly vigil at the grave.

"So, you're not a ghost after all," Will smiled.

Jack smiled back. "And neither are you dead."

"I guess this is the time of year for miracles, after all," Will said.

"Or," Jack pointed out, raising his glass in a toast, "A time of magic. Here's to you, Will Turner."

"And to you, Jack Sparrow." They clinked glasses together, and both said in unison.

"Happy Christmas."

****


	3. Chapter 2

****

The two men were sitting comfortably by the blazing hearth, hot drinks between them, with most of the bees buzzing in their bonnets squashed, except one.

"Why?"

Just one word yet it encompassed over one hundred years of wonder.

Will did not need an explanation, he knew what Jack was asking. _Why did he drink the water? Why did he choose to take that leap of faith?_

"Something you said to me once, actually."

"Really? And that would be…?"

"There comes a point in one's life, when one must listen to their own soul."

"Ah, yes." Jack took a sip from his cup and asked, eyes twinkling, "And what did yours have to say?"

"Not much," Will said wryly. "Change."

"And so you listened to your soul's urges and whispers."

"Yes."

Will took a deep breath. "I was ready to end it all, and might have, if you hadn't shown up when you did."

"And yet, you didn't. For which I am eternally grateful, by the way." Jack paused, then asked the real question burning in his heart. "And seeing me again changed your mind. Might I ask why?"

Will shook his head and, remembering, ran a hand across his face. "I wasn't really living anymore, just going through the motions. Comfortable in my own familiar discomfort, I suppose."

"The devil you know is better than the devil you don't know, is that it?"

"Pretty much, yes. And then, you showed up. And reminded me of life, of what living was." Will leaned forward, earnest. "You woke something inside of me, Jack."

"Yes, I got that part," Jack said, smiling with worried eyes. "But what made you finally take that leap?"

"Because that's what people do, Jack," Will said, eyes intent on Jack. "They leap. And hope to God they can fly...because otherwise people just drop like a rock, wondering the whole way down, why the hell did I jump?" He paused for a moment, then continued, voice choking with emotion.

"But here I am, Jack, soaring. Finally reunited with the person who had faith…No, _knew_ that I could fly."

****


	4. Chapter 3

Written by: mamazano  
Title: Resurrection Man  
Rating: G  
Characters: Jack, Will  
Disclaimer: Disney owns them, I just like playing with them

Summary: Forever is a very long time.

****

"So, what d'you reckon we should do now?" Jack asked, unhurriedly stretching his legs to the blazing fire, obviously at peace with himself and the surrounding world.

Will glanced at the pub's multi-paned window, comfortable heat settling into his limbs caused by the drink, the hearth, and the company. "Snow's piling up out there," he observed quietly. "Traveling is out of the question tonight." He gave a look around the snug room, half full of revelers drinking to the season. "I suppose I'd better see if the landlord has any rooms to let."

"Won't be finding any room at the inn, not at this time of year." Jack gestured towards the door. "But, it just so happens," Jack perked up and leaned forth, the hearth giving him a soft, warm flair, "I've a place, just down the road. Nothing fancy, but it's warm and dry, and…warm." He then rose, and placed his hat on his head, with that familiar gesture Will remembered so well. "I believe you'll find it a bit more comfortable resting place than the graveyard." Jack's eyes twinkled in the firelight, his entire countenance speaking of a man who'd had the world's weight removed from his shoulders when he stepped in front of Will and offered out his hand. "If you don't mind joining me?"

"I can't think of anything that'd make me happier," Will said, matching smile for smile, and taking Jack's hand.

For a passing, brief second, neither man knew how to let go.

"Off we go then," Jack cleared his throat and chucked down the rest of his mull, unsure if the flush he felt spreading across his face came from the spiced wine, or the ease with which Will first threw on his own coat, patted even his sleeves, and held out Jack's as if he'd done so a hundred times before.

Jack shrugged on his coat with a thanks, and shouldered his way to the bar to purchase a bottle for the road, only to be halted by a gent at a nearby table suddenly turning to grab Jack by the lapel of his coat. A bleary eyed patron pointed at him, squinting, and upon recognition, said excitedly, "Blimey! You! Ain't you Harper's Ghost?"

"As I am neither dead nor dying, I find that highly unlikely," Jack answered amusedly, following his afterthought as he noticed Will having proceeded to the intended purchase, "Although, much like Mr. Scrooge, I too, have been visited by a ghost from Christmas past."

"You've seen 'em, then!" A companion of the first man said. "Always knew o' Harper was tellin' the truth."

"Now, Ned, you've not said nothin' of the sort!" The first man set his pint down and wagged an educating finger at his friend. "If I recollect, you weres just sayin' yesterday how Harper'd be seeing ghosts in his bottle again."

"What was he like, this ghost?" Ned the now-believer gawked at Jack and asked, ignoring the other.

Will, a bottle of rum, and one of the tavern's own produce - the spicy mull in hand, stepped up and said, "I'm afraid, gentlemen, that he also was neither dead nor dying. In fact, I'd hesitate to call him a ghost at all."

"So there ain't no ghost? At _all_?" Ned sat back, a rather crest-fallen expression on his face.

"Oh, the ghost was real, all right, contrary to what my less-than-superstitious companion here might be telling you," Jack hastened to reassure the disappointed man while Will hid his chuckle in a cough.

"And," Jack grinned at Will, "as in Mr. Dickens' wonderful tale, he offered his partner a second chance, a chance to make right all the wrongs of his past." Jack fished in his pocket for some coins and set them on the table. "A round, landlord! For all these fine gents, in the spirit of Christmas past, present and all the other kinds."

Amidst the cheering and toasting, Jack and Will managed to slip out of the pub unnoticed, and made their way up the snowy street. The storm had passed, leaving the dark, clear sky ablaze with stars. The moon glistened on the virgin snow, so like a Christmas carol from long ago.

Draping a companionable arm around Will's shoulders, and gaining Will's arm around his waist in return, Jack stopped to take in Will's face as if to confirm that his senses weren't betraying him, then shook his head once with a deep, delighted sigh. Composing himself, and with heartfelt cheer and an all-encompassing wave over the harsh, blue scenery, Jack declared, "Ain't it just the perfect weather for a little stroll, my dear Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come?"

****


End file.
